The Duality of Our Most Esteemed Princess
by TrixTheFlowery
Summary: The Princess of Albion is a woman bred to be a lady of the court. As we all know, everything changes. Here is the tale of our stoic and duty-driven monarch to be and the difficult political decisions she must make to save her realm. RE-WRITE!
1. The Worker

**I decided to re-write this story because at this point, I essentially just want to write a story about Reaver being a depraved human being. Yup. That's all I want. Some things will remain the same; plot points etc. but the majority of it is getting a huuuuge overhaul. So here is the NEW chapter one!**

**o.O.O.o**

A foggy rain had set itself upon the industrial quadrant of Bowerstone that day. It had started early in the morning; before the sun had risen, and had firmly settled itself in between the odorous haze of the factory machinery, and the general aura of despair and daily drudgery the workers gave off.

Edd Halfwick wiped his brow of sweat and grime and threw what remained of his cigarette to the filthy cobbled ground outside the factory. It went out with a hiss as it hit a puddle of rust coloured rain and he trudged back inside, his hands thrust in the pockets of his stained blue corduroy trousers. Edd was a winch operator in this particular factory. His job was to stay at his station day and night and operate the winch. It was boring, tedious, hot, and paid terribly, but Mia had another little one on the way and Teddy was so small to begin with…

"Get outta my way you little whelp." He snarled at the child crawling past him, chasing a bearing that had rolled off the assembly line. "Get someone killed, you will." The child- a small girl with mousey brown hair paid him no mind.

Truth be told, Edd knew that the money he was pulling in from this job was simply not going to be enough to feed himself, Mia, Teddy, and one more hungry little mouth, but what other choice did he have? He asked himself as he pulled himself up the rust coated ladder that led to his station; he hated that ladder. A person couldn't touch it without getting their hands coated with fine red-orange dust and soot.

As he settled himself in next to his winch, his attention was captured by something of a commotion occurring over near the boilers. Whatever was happening was happening behind it, so he couldn't see, but he could make out snatches of raised voices between the rhythmic grinding, snapping, and clanging of the factory.

"Hey, Edd!" A voice called to him. Edd looked down from his winch and saw Smith Burgundy waving his soot coated cap at him from below. Smith was more of a boy than a man; he had grown up in Reaver's factories, crawling between gears and wires and cogs as a child, performing repairs in the scalding, belching machines of industry. Many children who worked such jobs never made it past childhood, but somehow, Smith had grown too big to fit into the machines anymore, and was given a job smelting. As miserable as life lived in a factory was, Smith never had a bad thing to say about it, much to Edd's amusement. "I got a roof over me head, and a bit of gin in me belly. What more does a man need?" He'd say, his pale green eyes shining out of the sooty mess that was his face. Not even Smith could deny the atrocities that the factory committed on a regular basis. With all the goodness in his heart, Smith secretly wanted better conditions for those in the factory who, unlike him, did not enjoy small spaces and being covered in filth from head to toe.

"Suzanne started another meeting." Smith said once Edd had leaned close to hear his hushed tones. "Over behind the boilers."

"That's what that racket is?" Edd said, raking a hand through his receding patch of straw coloured hair and throwing a dubious look in the direction of the supposed meeting. "You know the rules, Smith. If we get caught… well. I got another one on the way and I need this job. I don't have time for revolutionizing or whatever it is you lot are trying to do."

"The change will affect you too, Mister Halfwick. Sure as not. A smart man would get his pair 'a pennies in while he can."

"A smart man would keep his nose to the grind and do his job, rather than chasing dangerous folly." Edd said with a humourless smile. "Do you really want to tempt fate, and Old Reaver's trigger finger, boy? I would think after all these years in his employ one such as you would know to let sleeping dogs lie."

"It's not me I do this for, Mister Halfwick. I don't have no one else, so working in the factory suits me just fine. I can't learn no other trade, and I don't even know how to read or write."

"Neither do more than two thirds of the people here." Edd pointed out.

"Yeah, but the point is, sir, that these people have families, and loved ones and little ones and it's near impossible for people like them, and you to feed all the mouths, and keep the little ones warm and happy. If enough of us speak up, well… might just be that Mister Reaver might loosen some things up 'round here."

Edd shook his head; a boy was all Smith was, as he stood on the dirty floor, ringing his tattered hat in his blackened hands, looking up at Edd for confirmation and validation.

"You go to your meeting, boy. I'll be havin' no part in it. If I lost me job, Mia would beat me bloody around the ears."

Smith gracefully accepted the refusal, and Edd clambered back up his ladder, setting back to work, losing himself in the rhythmic, sing-song clangity-clang of his life. It was no prize winner to be sure, but the man found a sort of level headed content with what he did have. His musing was interrupted and his winching was stopped when the din of voices tore through; it was louder than ever, beginning to drown out even the sound of the machinery. A quick glance from side to side showed Edd that nearly everyone had abandoned their posts to convene behind the boilers and plot.

With a sigh, he lifted himself down the ladder, grasping a heavy lead wrench as he did. His boots kicked up a cloud of soot when they hit the ground and he trudged over to the boilers. He observed silently for a moment as the factory workers squabbled and nattered amongst themselves, each trying to raise their voices louder than the next. The sound was essentially a dull roar when he finally raised the wrench in his hand and struck it hard, three times against the iron side of the boiler.

The voices faded and attention turned slowly to Edd, standing solemnly by the boiler, the wrench resting on his shoulder.

No one else spoke, so he started.

"You all best better be gettin' back to work. Someone is bound to notice you're all away from your stations, and if you're unlucky, it'll be Old Reaver himself."

"Shut it, you." A smelter Edd knew to be called Tim snapped. "You don't want changes made 'round here, than piss off."

"Now is that any way to compose oneself in a disagreement with another man?" Came a churlishly aristocratic sing-song voice. Edd's blood ran a few degrees colder, as did everyone else's.

Old Reaver stood on the brass lattice stair case above them, his elbow resting lazily on a railing, his ebony wood cane held primly at his waist, a practically bored expression on his long face. He wasn't smiling.

"We was just getting' back to work." Tim stuttered pathetically, knowing there was no way the meeting could be disguised as anything other than what it actually was.

"Spare me your insulting attempts at deception, you sad little sea cucumber." Reaver said, tapping his cane on the floor. _Clang, clang, clang_… he studied all the workers with the eyes of a predator, taking note of each face with calculating eyes, his mouth turned down in a frown until those cold eyes rested on Edd.

"Mister Halfwick here, was correct in his assessment that I would be more than unpleased to find you all here, gossiping like a bunch of filthy, shit covered pigeons. Reaver Industries prides itself on the most efficient, and technologically forward factory standards, and in order to maintain such a standing, apparently I need to make it inescapably clear to each and every one of you that abandoning your work station for any reason, is akin to spitting in King Logan's face… or mine." He leaned forward. "Now, my shit-covered pigeons, would you dare to spit in Reaver's face?"

There was a general murmur of no's and a good deal of sullen head shaking before Reaver straightened from the railing and tapped his cane on the ground again. _Clang, clang, clang_… he still wasn't smiling. Edd didn't know if that un-nerved him more than if he had been.

"Very good." Reaver said. "It's painfully simple, after all. Don't. Leave. Your. Station." He pointed at a worker as he said each word. His finger came to rest on Tim, who had pissed himself. His lower lip was trembling.

"You're… you're not gonna kill me?" He whimpered, trying to arrange his hands in a way that would conceal the stain that had spread over his crotch.

"Now now, my pigeon, don't be foolish. I simply want you to answer a question for me. Are you ready?"

Tim put forward his best attempt at a nod, and Eddd nervously chewed at his lip.

"Suggest to me a scenario in which someone might leave their work station?"

Unfortunately, at this point, Tim had seemingly lost his ability for an sort of coherent speech and merely babbled a few random verbs and adjectives as Reaver patiently waited on the stairs.

"Having a hard time articulating, are we? Shall I help?" He turned his gaze on the workers in turn as he spoke, solemn, serious, and terrible. "Leaving your work station to stop the shit-covered rabble from forming a rebellion is not permitted." Reaver's cruel eyes landed on Edd, and that was the last thing he ever saw before the bullet buried itself in the bridge of his nose.


	2. Talah

Talah woke up in the castle gardens, Slouched against one of the pillars of the catacombs that overlooked Bowerstone. She ran her hand through her hair, brushing away the curtain of it that had fallen over her face. She smiled tiredly and looked around for Tam, but she was nowhere in sight. Being that she was a maid in the castle it made sense that she had to leave early to get ready for the day, nurse the hangover away, and present herself with bright eyes and vigour required to painstakingly dust suits of armour every day.

Talah blinked, equally as confused as the startled noblewoman who was enjoying her morning walk until she spotted the comatose princess, hair full of leaves and grass, an empty wine bottle clutched in her hand, sprawled on the dusty ground, her finery scuffed and soiled.

"M'lady." The lady said primly, before scurrying away from Talah, her pastel skirts a-bustle.

A groan eased out of her lungs and she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. Bloody Tam and her Millfields Mushrooms; she enjoyed them every time, but the day after they had the tendency to sit in ones stomach like a rock. Resolutely, she brought herself to her feet, leaning against the walls of the building next to her until the world ceased it's annoying business of whirling around her. She spat, trying to get the chalky, thick taste out of her mouth, knowing full well that it was going to do her absolutely no good.

She took a deep breath, her lungs inhaling the mingling scent of flowers from the garden, and the scent of oily industry below her. Resolving to grab another bottle of wine from the kitchen on the way back to her chambers, she set off through the garden, aware, but to all others oblivious of her rather rough appearance. She was used to people gawking and staring at the Princess of Albion smeared in mud and covered in grass stains. Talah certainly cleaned up well enough, and was every bit the comely lady of the courts that she was supposed to be… when she had to. Her own time was exactly that. Hers. No one would have thought anything odd was afoot if it had been Logan out every night having fun; he was a king, and a man, and was generally expected to whore and come home early in the day covered in all sorts of manly filth.

Sluggishly she dragged her feet across the ground, deciding she could probably use some food as well before she retreated first to a warm bath, and then to bed for the remainder of the day.

"Well, well, I daresay you look how I feel, princess."

With a non-committal noise from the back of her throat, the princess stopped trudging, and dragged her hair out of her face once again; it was doing such a lovely job of shielding her from the cruel sun. She looked to her left, where she could sense her walking companion had joined her. Blearily, she looked up at the speaker, his overly tall top hat providing her some semblance of shade.

"Good morning, Mister Reaver." She said politely, putting as much effort as possible into not vomiting on his boots.

"Now what might have you gotten into last night?" He smirked, plucking the empty bottle from her rather dirty hand. "Hmm... shiraz. Very nice." He handed it back to her and she more or less just let it slip through limp fingers to fall to the ground.

She waved her hand at it, continuing on "Someone'll get that. Probably Tam... I can't be bothered right now." She was either too tired, too hungover, or simply didn't care enough to jump when Reaver snatched her hands by the wrists and held her hands out, palms up, bending slightly to get a proper look at the grass stains that streaked the heels of her palms.

The business man chuckled quietly, letting her wrists go. Anything to cop a feel of… anything, I suppose, the lady thought. "You do know you have a rather splendid bed chamber, my dear? It looks like you spent the night in some dismal field somewhere."

"Oh I wouldn't go so far as to call it dismal." Talah replied, her voice aloof. "It was actually quite nice. The grass was wonderfully soft." She didn't so much mind Reaver as tolerate him. He was womanizing, cruel, deceitful, and a shameless narcissist, but on the other hand, she had her own unpleasant aspects too. Can't fault a man for being exactly who he is, she always decided. At least he's honest about it, and his peculiar advances never bothered her much either. She knew that Logan was many things, and an idiot was not one of them; he'd never marry his sister off to a man like Reaver, even if he was the richest, most powerful man in Albion.

Reaver turned up his nose and tapped his cane showing his disapproval at the very idea. "C'est la vie, dear girl. Do you happen to know where your brother is? I have an appointment with him today."

"Ugh... Skorm be damned. What time is it?" Talah asked suddenly.

"Quarter past one, give or take a few minutes," The man smirked wolfishly as she dismissed herself to wobble over to the magnificent fountain that was the centerpiece of her late father's garden and hurled gloriously into the clear water.

"That feels much better." She breathed, standing back up and wiping a bit of sick from the corner of her mouth. "Forgive me," She said primly, "That was un-womanly of me." She said the words, but couldn't keep the sarcastic stoicism out of them. As long as she pretended she gave a shit about who witnessed her throw up, all would be well in the world.

"You have some caught in there, love." Reaver pointed to the right side of her head with his cane. Talah just shrugged.

"It was less for the benefit of my hair and more for the benefit of my pounding head." She smirked, her gray-green eyes twinkling. "You came to see Logan?" If he expects me to find him, he's out of luck. I'm bound for bed.

"Oui madame." Reaver smirked, he appeared to be utterly nonplussed by the princess' strange behaviour. She knew that he knew plenty about her odd ways of spending time. Nobody in Albion didn't, as much as her brother tried to brush it under the rug: She was a loose cannon in the eyes of the king. And truly she was... Reaver had caught her once, with Tam, trying to sneak into his house to steal some of his wine during the dead of night. She had declined his offer, that she may have the wine, but only if she and her friend shared it with him... in his bed.

Talah was well aware of the way Reaver leered at her since she was old enough to bleed. Reaver wasn't the only one. As soon as she started to bloom small lumps on her chest and her hips began to widen, an entire world was opened up to her. A world where men associated you not only with pleasure, but also with power; how lofty a goal to wed and bed the next in line for the throne? Well… they certainly could dream, couldn't they?

"Logan will be in the war room." She finally declared. "He's always in there these days. I keep trying to convince him to come play some croquet with me... but..." She fell silent and looked back at Reaver, who was merely eying her with all the hunger of a starving dog. She always felt like a stupid little girl around him for some reason. She always felt like he knew some grand secret that he wasn't telling anybody, least of all a stupid little lady. "You know where it is. If you'll excuse me, I need to find something to eat before I swoon." She bent a bruised and wobbly knee in a truthfully uninspired attempt at a curtsy and began to trudge off in the direction of the kitchens.


	3. Sir Walter Beck

His head was still spinning, his eyes throbbed of their own accord, and there seemed to be blood running down his left cheek and dripping down his the end of his crooked nose. All that mattered right now was the young lady that had brushed past him, her brother and a dozen guards. The thing he would never forget was that she didn't run, she didn't cry, she did nothing but sweep furiously and silently away from them all. Logan made no move to stop her； in fact when the guards stepped into pursuit, the king had called them off even though both Logan and himself knew that Princess Talah would not be returning to her chambers for a good cry over the death of her friend.

"Your Grace," he managed to say through his swollen mouth, "Let me go to her. I will find her."

More startling than anything else was Logan's blade quickly pressed to his throat； he felt every prickly whisker on his throat spring under the cold steel.

"You will find her, Sir Walter, and you will bring her home unharmed." The king said, his eyes mad, and his face pale. If only one thing Logan remained truly devoted to, Walter knew it was his own blood. Convoluted and sick as his love was, Talah was his sister, but she was also now an adversary.

"As His Grace commands." Walter said calmly, placidly, despite the urge to smack the blade away and strangle the young king then and there；he had diferent plans... plans that would surely brand him as a treasonous coward and put his face on every bounty hunter's table in the kingdom. It was all for a larger cause, and Sparrow would want him to play his part well.

Logan's iron clad eyes tore into him and the blade remained pressed to the vulnerable flesh between life and death. "I will not tolerate failure, Sir Beck. You will bring her back to me, or I will make and example of you as well."

Walter surpressed a shudder；Elliot had been hauled away, stripped, and shot like a dog on the balcony of the castle before the throng of rebellious subjects. His corpse was unceremoniously thrown from the castle, into the moat below to the screams and hoots of the castle guards. It was an ugly picture that Walter knew he was never likely to forget, but for now, there were more important things to ensure that Elliot had not been murdered in vain.

Bow deeply, old man. Go against everything you know and lie boldly to your king.

"I shall see it done." He promised, folding at the waist before sweeping from the room.

His heavy feet were muffled by the thick purple carpet beneath them as he walked through the castle at a brisk pace, ignoring the guards that lined the silent halls, lest they pick up on his deception and bring him a quick death with the dangerously sharpened bayonets on the end of their rifles.

He made for the princess's chambers, despite the fact that both he and Logan knew she wouldn't be there. He didn't doubt for a moment though that she had stopped there before leaving, perhaps she had left a clue to her whereabouts, though he found it unlikely; the princess was no idiot. Regardless, appearances must be kept.

The door opened without a sound. To the eye, nothing was out of place in the lavish bedchamber: The fire that had been set earlier in the evening had been left untended and had become nothing more than a faintly glowing pile of coals in the hearth. The curtains had been drawn and Talah's bed turned down by the castle servants.

Walter wasted no time crossing the room to the chestnut desk in the corner, yanking out drawers and rifling through books and piles of paper.

"Sir Walter?" Came a voice from the barely there light.

Walter dropped an old book of fairy tales and turned around.

"Jasper?" He said, squinting into the shadows, trying to see by the sliver of light that streamed in from the hallway. He recognized the servant's aristocratic voice. "Has the princess been here?"

"Well.. yes..." The butler said, taking a few shaky steps forward, his old eyes wide and darting around nervously.

"Did she take anything?" Walter demanded; it hurt him to use his societal status to his advantage, but at a time like this, he needed answers.

Jasper nervously wrung his hands. "She merely requested riding clothes... I, I set them out for her, she dressed herself and then she left."

"She made no mention of where she was headed?" The big soldier asked.

"She was... she was completely silent apart from her requests, Sir." Jasper stammered. "You're not going to bring her back here, are you?"

Walter considered the question very carefully before answering: Was this a trick? Should he reveal his true motives to this butler? There was of course the possibility that the old servant was just incredibly worried about his charge; he wasn't as such friendly with Jasper, but he knew that he had been Talah's primary caretaker after the death of King Sparrow. Even when the gypsy king still lived, Walter could recall a small girl in a purple gown toddling around the castle, ever under the watchful eye of the stuffy old man. Who was there left to trust now? How was he ever to achieve his end goal if he couldn't trust a frail old man?

"No." He finally said, simply. "Princess Talah will not be returning."

Jasper shuffled his feet nervously and let out what might have been a squeak of some sort. "You'll be tracked down and killed!"

Walter had been waiting for him to say this. In an instant he welcomed the butler to the cold steel at his hip, pressed to his throat. "And I suppose you'll be the one to inform our monarch, hmm?"

"It would mean treason for both of us!" Jasper cried, struggling against the sword at his throat. It took barely any effort for Walter to subdue him.

"And what of Talah? What do you think will become of her if Logan captures her? He certainly won't kill her, but he'll lock her away for the rest of her life to keep her quiet. He knows he created an enemy tonight. Her claim to the throne is legitimate if she can raise enough resistance to Logan's rule."

Walter could see the conflict in the servant's eyes; this man had lived his entire life sworn to the crown, not as a fighter or a diplomat, but as a simple butler, he was in no position to be caught up in any sort of political upheaval.

"And you're going to help her, then?"

"Yes."

"Then I have decided that I want to come with you." Jasper said, finally managing to free an arm and gingerly push away the sword.

Walter sheathed the weapon with a disdainful laugh he couldn't hold back. "What good is a butler going to be? Will you darn my socks should I happen to tear one?"

"When we find Princess Talah, I am certain she will find some use for me." The butler said stiffly. "I will not lie to you that I am any sort of brave soul or a gunfighter or such other nonsense. My duty is to my lady and I will go where my lady goes... although I already have my suspicions that where we will be going will be sorely lacking any sort of plumbing..."

"You've made your choice then, Jasper? I could kill you now, so my secret is safe, or you can walk out that door with me?"

"I always had a rather stubborn fondness for life.." Jasper said as he lit a candle and started out the door.

Walter leaned close to them as they walked, "If anybody asks us why you're with me, I am going to tell them that you, being the last person to see the princess, are aiding me in my search of the castle grounds, and that we are heading to the stables to see if she took her horse."

"But we're going in the direction of the-"

"Shut it." Walter warned stonily. As they took the stairs and passed by a pair of guards, standing still and silent by the doors; Walter always hated Logan's personal guard. If you wanted cold fear, look no further than the masked, purple uniformed goons he kept around himself.

To add to the romantic tragedy of the entire evening, at some point it had begun to rain, and he could not deny the moment of amusement he had as he watched Jasper sullenly throw aside the useless candle that had been instantly drowned in rain. The castle courtyard was empty of the usual throng of nobles that roamed it during the daylight hours as they waited for court or milled about hoping to gain the attention of someone who may elevate their status even further; a stupid game, Walter had always thought. What was the point of living life dressed up as a fancy cake, hoping to make a good impression on the world without actually being able to do anything useful? Truthfully, they were quite a dangerous lot, for all of their arrogance and ambition. They were the eyes and ears in the castle walls, using a poorly turned word against each and every opponent in order to gain some sort of land or political power. There was no loyalty among those people. No friendship. No trust. He had always made a point to avoid them with everything he had in him, not that they had ever shown much interest in him to begin with, but when they had his vulgar mouth and nearly ever-present flagon of ale made them easy to shed.

"You look on the west side." Walter commanded, quietly drawing his sword, though he didn't know why; his sword hand tingled, he supposed. "I'll look on the east, we'll meet at the north of the garden, at the catacombs." He saw Jasper nod, and wiped his forehead of rain before setting off into the black.

He knew Talah wouldn't have gone far. She would wait until morning, until the rain cleared, when she could slip away in un-assuming clothes, right under the very noses of the guards, but she also knew she couldn't very well hide under her bed. He knew his wayward princess frequently slept under the stars, though of her own choosing under normal circumstances. Where on the castle grounds would a surely frightened young woman hide until morning light? He rattled hedges with his blade, quietly calling out to her. He looked over and under every bench and behind every statue and fountain. There were no trees and no shelter in the courtyard, save for the hulking white marble building that marked the catacombs under which King Sparrow slept.

"Princess?" He called, softly down the stairs, wishing desperately for a torch so that he might see better. "Talah, are you down there?" He squinted, thinking his eyes could see a dark blot in the corner by the door to the catacombs that was slightly more black than everything else. "I've come for you. It's me, Sir Walter."

There was a slight groan from the blackness. "I meant to leave, but I realized I forgot a coat, and couldn't go back in, but it was too wet to go on without one..."

Walter waved Jasper over; he had just come from around a hedge, his white powdered wig a soggy mop plastered all over his wrinkly forehead. "I found her." He called, as loud as he dared to. Everything in life had become a matter of whether or not he dared.


	4. Reaver

OOO

He had been walking through Bowerstone Industrial purely to watch the worthless peons and smelly rabble run away from him as he approached, his white suit was a universally recognized symbol of fear and nothing was more entertaining than placing oneself on a pedestal above everyone else at the end of the day.

A begging woman scurried away from his oncoming footsteps, withdrawing her outstretched palm when she saw the top hat and cane. He felt absolutely no guilt in nudging her a little further away with the end of his cane as she did so. The gall. The audacity. It drove something very much like a shiver up his elegant spine. How dare... it.

"How are you ever going to get ahead in life sitting on your worthless duff and asking for handouts?" He sneered cruelly, watching the fear in the woman's eyes turn into humiliation, and then anger. She spat at his feet and swore at him, her words drunkenly slurred and accented with a lilt from some faraway land. He wondered if he had ever fucked a woman from this mystery land, but before he had ever come to a conclusion, his hand had already acted of its own accord and shot the piteous being in the face. Pity. With a bath and some new clothes, she might have been nice to play with. He supposed he just didn't have it in him to care today, as he put away his ornate pistol, lovingly nestling it in the holster at his hip.

"You don't get anywhere without a little bit of respect either, dahling." And without a second thought he resumed his walk, leaving the woman's piss-stinking corpse to cool in the shadow of the brick building she came to rest upon. His cane rhythmically clicked rhythmically against the cobblestone road as he went a small sound adding to the assortment of industry related noises, belching a filthy symphony into the hazy sky. He passed by the pub, instantly noticing it was much louder than the usual hum of depressed factory workers, spending half of their two daily gold on beer.

Nonchalantly he turned his head as he passed by, peering subtly into the grimy windows. There was music being played, and the pub was much fuller than he had seen it in recent memory. Curiosity piqued, he carefully pushed his face up against the glass.

She was by the fireplace, sitting at one of the roughly hewn wooden tables, surrounded by all manner of men, young and old. There were women too. Tavern slatterns and common whores, pregnant women, their huge bellies carefully shielded from the crowd by their arms. A lute was in her hands and as she made merry and conversed with the common rabble, she plucked away at it expertly. Everyone hushed for a moment as she spoke briefly and then the pub filled with uproarious laughter which poured out of the door and onto the cobbled street to meet Reaver's ears. A smile lit her own face as she drank to her own joke. He had never seen her in anything other than clothing befitting nobility, but there could be no mistaking her.

Reaver followed her shape up from the floor, shaming the entire world for keeping such a luscious creature prisoner in a bodice and layers upon layers of silk and lace for so many years. In many ways, the leather trousers and well worn leather jerkin she wore over a dark blouse were considerably more forgiving than all of the finery she had been decked in until this point in her life. Her clothing made no lie of the fact that she lived rough, nor did the sword at her belt or the pistol on her hip. He wondered for a moment if perhaps he was mistaken and this creature was nothing more than a hauntingly familiar looking mercenary. The wheels started turning in his head, and he took the distraction of another well told joke as an opportunity to quietly let himself into the pub, hardly believing his spectacular luck.

He removed his top hat and stuck to the shadows, avoiding any unwanted attention from patrons or the woman with the lute. He sauntered effortlessly around the other side of the bar and put his hat under the counter, wrinkling his nose at the sticky spots of spilled ale that had dried there.

"What're you doing back here?" The bartender snapped, wiping a mug with a filthy rag, his eyes widening when he recognized the industrialist without his trademark hat.

"Now, now." Reaver coaxed, slowly reaching into the inside pocket of his fur lined jacket. "No need to be frightened sir." He withdrew his hand and the barman nearly jumped out of his skin until it dawned on him that there wasn't a gun in the gloved hand, but rather a small satchel of coin. "I've just bought this establishment out from under your nose, now if you'd be so kind as to vacate the premises immediately, you are certainly not the sort I want running the place." He looked around and tutted a bit, dropping the satchel onto the bar. "So dreary in here. But as they say, out with the old and in with the new. Tatty bye!" He called after the rapidly exiting bartender.

Once the door slammed behind the extremely fortunate man, he shrugged off his fine, bear fur trimmed jacket and pulled off his gloves, storing them both in the smelly little office behind the bar. He rolled up his silk shirt sleeves and tousled his neatly styled hair; he couldn't just stand there looking exactly like himself, could he? No, that would be far too easy to figure out, being the striking being that he was. He licked the tip of his index finger and smudged away the heart doodled on beneath his eye. Why did he do that every day? Well, after living for so long, you might as well, he reminded himself, tying a grubby apron around his waist, loathing the fact that such a filthy article was even touching his clothes. And now to get a closer look.

"You there, girl." He called to one of the slatterns. "Be a love and turn down the lights, will you. I daresay we are in need of a touch more ambiance."

The girl looked at him, her blue eyes confused. "Sure, but where did Mister Timmins go? I saw him not five minutes ago."

"He has decided to pack up his things and move to Mourningwood. A sudden choice, yes, but most thankfully I happened to be stopping in for a pint at just the right moment and am now in charge of this... what would you call this desperate hovel exactly? Establishment. Yes. Now pip pip my gel." He finished, giving her arse a squeeze just for good measure.

He waited for the lights to go down before catching the serving wench again. "I'll mind the busy table, if you don't mind. I say, after watching you work for all of ten minutes, you really have some brushing up to do if you want to keep working for me." He dress had been buttoned up to the neck until he stuck his fingers in the collar and tore the buttons off down to her chest, exposing a pale and ample bosom. "That's definitely a start. Off you go now."

He set to work pouring a flagon of ale for each of the men seated at the table, including one for their exuberant female companion. He was no good at pouring ale and had to drink quite a few half full glasses himself before he finally got it right. He had no taste for malty beer, but regardless, the room was beginning to turn slightly. Wasting alcohol was a most grievous sin. He wiped the side of the last mug, and arranged them neatly on a tray, hoisting it with ease onto his shoulder and making his way across the pub.

They said she was a hero now. This was no hero. This was desire embodied Reaver decided, as he elbowed through the crowd of people surrounding her and began setting drinks on the table. This was also an enormous amount of gold in his pocket and possibly some silly title, if things went his way. If things went his way, well, there would be no losing for Reaver. He watched the flickering lamp-light dance across her face and knew without a doubt he was looking at no other than the heir apparent of Albion. She had her brother's eyes, cold, and sharp, but apart from that, had stolen most of her looks from her father; they shared the same long face and slightly crooked nose. The princess's lips were thick, and constantly turned up to one side, where Logan's were thin and frowning. She was a comely, female to be sure, but she was dark and intense looking, even as she laughed and made merry with the men around her.

"What are these for?" She asked, letting go of her lute and grabbing his wrist as he set a cup of ale in front of her. She looked up at him and for a moment he thought she might recognize him, but the light was dim, and she was already well in her cups.

"On the house, miss." He said, avoiding all proper convention. Had he dared to call her "m'lady" or "my lady" she would have known that he knew who she was, or that he was not who he made himself out to be. Her pale green eyes, chilly and calculating despite the half smile on her face, studied all of him that she could see. "Did you just begin work? I hadn't seen you here earlier."

"Yes miss, the bartender took ill, so he got a whelp to run down the lane and wake me up."

"Well then, as I told him before you, I'm having a little private party of sorts here, and I'm not looking to be disturbed, so if you would be so kind as to keep any riff-raff away, I will make it more than worth your while."

"I'll see that not a single soul intrudes on your little soiree." He said, his lip curling slightly as he snuck a look down the front of her jerkin, and a quick glance at the men around the table; upon close inspection, a motley crew indeed. Factory workers and mercenaries, and even a few wickedly armed bandits who looked to be from up north. "Do let me know if there's anything you need."

He returned to his place behind the bar, helping himself to a bottle of wine. It was of a horrible vintage, but he couldn't help but pour himself a celebratory drink; Logan had been searching high and low for this whelp since that bloody soldier of his that was supposed to find her had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth four months earlier.

Reaver watched as she spoke for a moment to a large dark-skinned man beside her and made a lewd joke as he passed her a fresh bottle of wine from under the table. She took it with a grin and treated herself to a large swig. He found himself wondering how much she had already had that night, as a thin line of it dribbled down her chin and she wiped it away with her sleeve and continued to chat loudly.

"Let's play a game!" She announced, her rich voice carrying over the noise. "It's called black and blue..." She leaned into the center of the table and began to explain the rules, which escaped Reaver's ears, but he soon found out what the game entailed.

She undid her jerkin and removed it along with her open fingered gloves. She took another draw of wine before she stood from the table and took another man to an empty table, the group followed and crowded around, leaving Reaver just enough space from his dark corner of the bar to see what was happening. Talah had produced a deck of cards from seemingly nowhere; her father was a gypsy after all, no doubt some of the odd inclination to trickery had passed down the line. She shook hands briefly with the man who stood across from the table; a mercenary by the look of it, bald headed and stubbly with a massive hatchet on his back.

She drew a card from the deck. Reaver could see it was a six of spades. She took a long pull of wine and set the card down, waiting for the man to draw his card. Two of clubs. He drank as well.

He saw her lips pull slightly at the sides when she came up with her next card; a queen of diamonds and the next thing he knew, the sound of skin hitting skin filled the bar as the mercenary slapped her across the face with all his might. Her head whipped to the side and her dark hair cascaded in motion with the impact, but she didn't fall, or bury her face. She laughed, said something Reaver heard to be, "Good one." And waited for the mercenary to take his card, which also turned out to be red.

If the mercenary had slapped her hard, she returned him doubly in kind as their game continued and the bar patrons cheered them on. He could see people passing coins back and forth, making wagers on who would surely lose first. He assumed the point of this game was that you either got so drunk you passed out, or you relented after being struck in the face too many times. How uncivilized, he mused, his mouth hung open in disbelieving laughter: Was this actually happening? The princess of Albion actually carried on like this? She was a physically strong woman to be sure. Nothing compared to that behemoth, Hammer, but even a fool could see the coiled power in the slaps she threw when it came her time to hit. And when it was her time to be hit, she took it bravely. It was clear that it hurt, but she didn't relent. Reaver shrugged, probably because she was so drunk. But could it also be that she has inherited dear daddy's side of things? Could it be that she really was a hero? Logan certainly wasn't. He made a good enough soldier, but he didn't possess that borderline freakish talent for hurting and being hurt that people like Reaver did. All Logan was good for was the hurting people part. He feared pain unlike his sister, who had just had her neck wrenched by another blow and turned back around with a smile, wiping the blood from her lips.

Her opponent looked tired, and also a lot more drunk. Blood was running from a cut on his cheek, and his eyes looked glazed as he leaned heavily against the table. He pulled a jack of spades and with an outstretched arm, swept his flagon off the table with a clatter. "No more." He drooled. "I can't drink, or get hit no more."

The man stumbled from the bar, and Reaver busied himself with pouring a tall cup of gin for the winner, as was only polite. He had certainly bet on the wrong horse to win that one. He looked up momentarily and then back down, and then back up; Talah had torn her blouse off at the same time as the woman she had winked at earlier had. The two waved the discarded items of clothing above their heads like flags, wearing only their corsets. It didn't take long before everyone else, man and woman alike started removing their shirts too.

Had he been expecting this to happen, Reaver would have been right on top of the trend, for as far as he was concerned, a room full of half naked people was one of the best kind of rooms to be in. Instead, he just watched her carrying on, rallying the patrons of the pub as clothes flew through the air and glasses continued to fall.

A low growl escaped his lips as he watched the candlelight waver over her sweat slicked, freckled shoulders, her hair still swinging around her head, now a tangled, damp mess. To brilliant applause she smashed the still partially full bottle of wine against the table, splattering everyone within ten feet of her with red.

"Tell me you want me!" She declared, jumping down from the table as every hand in the pub clapped and every voice cheered for her exploits. "I will lead you all if you only let me!" She roared. A familiar feeling grew in the root of his stomach as he felt possessive attraction sweep over him. In part because in her absolutely vulgar displays of inebriation, she stroked the narcissist within: How like he she must be... she was hard. She was tough. She was clearly a deviant.

She disappeared into the back room of the pub, and the crowd slowly began to dissipate, murmuring their approval and collecting discarded and booze stained shirts and soon he was the only one left. He slipped to the back room where he had seen Talah close the door, gently, he knocked, aware of a conversation taking place on the other side.

"Who is it?" Came her voice.

"A most adoring fan." He replied, smirking darkly.

"Just a moment." She replied and he heard her hushed voice through the thin wood. "I'm so sorry, darling, it'll have to be another night, okay?" The door opened and instead of the princess a flushed girl with strawberry blonde hair emerged, barely even glancing at Reaver before hurrying off.

He pushed the door open, and beheld the princess sitting in a red armchair, in front of a fire, lacing up her jerkin. More curious than the strawberry blonde strumpet, however, was the pistol she had aimed imposingly at his face.

Even more curious though, was that she didn't lower it when he saw the glimmer of confirmation run through her eyes.

"Girls shouldn't play with Daddy's guns." Reaver tutted, closing the door behind him, and finally doing away with the filthy apron, throwing it carelessly on the floor.

"I'm a wanted woman." She said pointedly, "And you are renowned the world over for having a nose for gold."

"You suspect I would turn you in to your dear brother?"

"I know for a fact that you would turn me in to my dear brother." Talah asked. "Now unless you grace my presence with a business offer, I suggest you leave, and this need not get messy."

Reaver took a seat across from Talah in the twin to her own chair. "My dear," he began "truthfully that was my intention upon stumbling upon your little exhibition here this evening. However, upon witnessing the particularly stunning assets you bring to something so mundane as a game of cards, I daresay my mind has been changed. Why, I was so intrigued I even purchased this pub on the spot."

Talah watched him with a chilly, distrustful gaze for a few moments before lowering her pistol, resting it on her lap. "I am the most wanted woman in Albion. You would dare to commit treason by being in the same room with me?"

"It depends on what we're doing in said room." Reaver chuckled, pouring them both a glass of wine from the bottle he had taken earlier. "Silly girl, you should always be suspicious of Reaver. For you can be certain that nothing that has my hands involved in it is done without primary benefit to my own well-being."

"So they say." She replied plainly, accepting the glass from him, merely blinking when he trailed his fingers over hers before they parted. She was a walking, talking winter, this one. "How did you end up here?" She asked. "A shitty pub in the industrial district seems like the last sort of place that would draw the attention of men like you." she set down her wine and picked up her slightly damaged lute which was leaning against the chair beside her. Her eyes turned down and she set to the task of tuning the instrument. Reaver couldn't help but notice that she had not put her blouse back on and was still wearing only the jerkin.

"I was going for my evening stroll and heard a ruckus." He said dryly.

"A ruckus, hey?" Talah smiled; it was a cold smile, devoid of any humour or joy. She looked up to meet the pirate's eyes. She plucked a string experimentally and made a face. "Well then, I'm glad I could draw your from your echoing halls in Millfields, instead to a quaint little pub for an evening of frivolity amongst the common folk." She smirked a little, taking a sip of her wine before placing it down once again.

"It was an evening well spent." Reaver said politely, also sipping his wine. "Inspiring in fact, which is why I waited around until everyone cleared out. And bought the pub."

"Hmm. You mentioned that bit already." Talah hummed, as she continued tuning the lute. "Get on with it."

She certainly was royalty, if anything else. Not many people told Reaver to "get on with it." and lived to tell about it. He gritted his teeth and forced a smile. "I have a proposition for you, my love." He said, standing from the chair and walking to hers, holding out his hand. "May I?"

She looked from his hand, to his face, to her lute, and thought for only a moment before handing the instrument over with a smile. "If you must."

He returned to his chair and sat, fiddling with the pegs on the sides of the lute. He was more of a piano man, but if it meant getting what he wanted at this point, he'd cut his losses and appeal to the woman's vanity; she had clearly developed more than enough of it over the past four months. No longer was she the quiet, inwards woman that roamed the courtyard and spent her days in the library, unsure of what the world would think of her, and painfully avoidant of any mention of her glaring status as a maiden.

"I'm planning on hosting a party in the near future. A very secret party for very secret people..." he winked, tapping the side of his nose before continuing. "Your unique brand of entertainment is precisely what I'm looking for to tantalize my lovely guests. So to you, I'm extending the offer to come play for me."

Talah tilted her head, considering the offer. "I want a throne, not a bloody masquerade."

"Come now, Tessa-"

"Talah." She said absent mindedly, "Think of 'talon.' "

"Talah," Reaver started over, "It'll be a wonderful party. Your brother will never know you were there, and there will be all the wine and... pleasant feelings you can handle. Think of it this way; you're a busy little usurper, and I'm a busy business man. We can hardly meet for lunch on a Thursday if we both want to get what we want out of this."

Talah smiled softly. She knew exactly what was going on. No woman tore their shirt off in front of Reaver without catching his attention as a prospective bed mate. Another game of cat and mouse... I wonder if he realizes exactly how unlike the other mice I am? She wondered. "And what exactly do you want out of this?"

He watched her silently as he finished tuning the last string on the lute. He strummed it and every note came out clean and pure. Without getting up, he held the instrument out to Talah, wearing a hungry grin. "I want a hero on the throne."

"How do you know Logan's not?" She asked, not moving to take the lute.

"Because I know things." Reaver said, allowing the slightest hint of venom to take his voice; he wasn't about to allow some little neophyte rugrat walk all over him like he was some sort of idiot, nor would he spill his secrets. "All that matters is that I know what you are, and it just so happens that removing Logan's woefully inept backside from that cushy throne is in the best interests of both of us."

"He seems to like you." She said. "He seems to like you more than I do, if that counts for anything."

"I'm offering my assistance, you insufferable woman. Why do you keep evading an answer?"

"Because it would bring me great joy to not only topple Logan, but take you down at the same time."

Reaver felt the corners of his mouth lift; she was a clever beast. She didn't show all of her cards at once, nor did she make hasty decisions. Very well and good... he was a patient man, after all.

"Play me something then. If you can tune it, surely you can play it."

Reaver sighed in a world-weary way, knowing this game, and grateful for the fact that it wasn't Black and Blue. "Alas, my dear, it has been such a long time I fear I cannot even play you the simplest of ditties." Despite his admission, he sat back in his chair and placed the instrument on his lap. "Perhaps you could help me remember?"

Standing and sipping from her wine again, Talah said, "Of course." Before crossing the room and standing next to where Reaver sat. "Do you remember any chords?" She asked, looking down at the neck of the lute, her eyes made sultry by the fire in the hearth.

"No, unfortunately." Reaver said, barely able to hide the smile bursting to creep onto his lips. "It has been a very, very, very long time."

"Hmm." Talah hummed thoughtfully. She left Reaver's side and dragged her chair over, its legs scraping against the wooden floor. She sat down with her wine and looked at Reaver. "Alright, put your fingers here, here, and here." She leaned over and tapped each place on the neck of the lute with her finger. He did as she said, "Now strum." She ordered. "That's your A chord."

"Mmmm... you make a delightful teacher Talah." Reaver purred, the lust behind his eyes growing when he saw her blush slightly. "Show me another?" He whispered, enjoying the wonderful view he got of her breasts as she leaned over to indicate another finger placement. "I see..." He muttered as he played the E chord. "May I request something of my future liege that may just help me learn this better?"

Talah barely cracked a smile "Sure."

"Come behind me and show me with your hand how to do it. It's a much better perspective." He breathed, half expecting her to ignore him, as she had so previously demonstrated she was exceptional at.

Wordlessly she stood, walking to the other side of the chair, her boots clicking on the floor. She knelt down beside him, the light of the fire making her eyes blaze as she looked at him, her face quite unreadable.

"I never took you to be a man so interested in the arts, Reaver." She said softly, the fireplace crackling behind her. "There are so few who have a genuine passion for such things." She said, pulling herself up so that her elbows rested on the arm of the chair.

"I'm a man who appreciates beauty, in all forms." He said silkily, looking into her eyes, wanting nothing more than to take the would be Queen right then and there.

Her reply was nothing more than a wry smile, and the slight lifting of an eyebrow, as she wrapped her left hand around the neck of the lute, her fingers in a new position, this time. "C chord," she said, removing her fingers and taking Reaver's left hand in her own, gently placing each finger where hers had just been. The skin on the tips of her fingers was hard and thick, and Reaver wondered if they were that way from years playing the lute, or if they were proof of the heroic escapades of the recent months. He wondered if she had scars under her clothes. She wondered if she ever cried when she got hurt, and how many men she had lain with since she left the castle. He wondered who the strawberry blonde was. "Well, are you going to play it or not?" She goaded.

A low moan fell from Reaver's lips, "I'm finding it increasingly hard to be a gentleman." He purred, turning his head to face Talah; they were both rather close to one another.

"This is a lute lesson." Talah said huskily, "not an exercise in seduction."

"Let's make it both, shall we?" He prompted, leaning close enough to her that he could feel her breath on his face. The closeness he hungered for. He saw a shiver ran up her spine and she held her eyes to his dark green ones. His fingers left the lute and went to trail up her collarbone, coming to rest on her long neck as the room fell to the near silence of wood crackling in the fireplace. Let's fill it with moans and sighs...

"My goodness, you do work quickly, don't you?" Talah joked.

"You were going to fuck that wench tonight, weren't you?" He asked quietly, holding her gaze, delighting in the fact that indeed he had caught her at her dirty game. "Come play at my party." He invited again, not giving her a chance to answer his other question, coaxing her closer with his fingers on her chin. "It would make me very, very happy." He breathed, savouring the moment when his lips finally brushed hers teasingly. "We'll have a cup of wine after the guests leave, or maybe before. We'll talk about your future, and how Reaver Industries can help."

"I'll have to think about it." She whispered against his mouth. "Being a hero, and a usurper, and possibly a murderer, I'm terribly busy you know."

"Ohhhh princess... I'm not asking." He groaned, grasping the side of her face with one large hand and pressing the barrel of his gun to her temple. "...Because if you decline, then unfortunately you will be returning to dear Logan sooner rather than later. This monarchy has grown old, and if no one is going to help change go along its natural course, I will."

"You dog." Talah muttered,"When I am queen, I'll have you hung for this." Although there was far more lust than wrath in her voice.

"Always be suspicious of Reaver." He reminded her, taking her lips to his again. "Now what does my pet have to say?"

"When?"

Reaver's eyes glinted as a smile crept onto his face. "Why is the game called Black and Blue, if cards are black and red?"

"Because you either pass out in a field somewhere, blackout drunk, or you wake up in the morning looking like a fisherman's wife because your face has been bruised so blue." She wadded up her blouse and tucked away her pistol and stood, sweeping a dark woolen cloak over her shoulders.

"The party is next Wednesday at nine sharp. Come to the mansion for six, however and I will provide you with a meal. I can tell just by looking at you those are hard to come by these days."

She neither accepted or declined, merely nodded her head before exiting through the back door, leaving Reaver to wonder what in bloody hell he was going to do with his newly acquired pub.


	5. Page

"What do you think of the princess?" Ben asked in a hushed voice.

"There's no need to whisper, Ben. We're the only ones here." Page snapped, leaning against the map table and crossing her arms restlessly; she had spent the past eight months living in the sewers, and despite what she told herself, the flimsy straw filled mattress on the damp floor never got any easier to sleep on. "I can't say I'm certain what to make of her yet." She admitted, not knowing what else to say to the soldier; what could she say that he would understand? As a girl stolen from Samarkand and sold into slavery right under King Sparrow's nose, she had a very difficult time putting much faith in any sort of monarchy.

"Well she seems alright to me."

"Of course she did." So did King Sparrow. Sparrow the Gypsy King, Sparrow the Sacrificing, Sparrow the Uniting. Truthfully, he was Sparrow the Naive and Sparrow of the Rose Coloured Glasses. Slavery thrived under his "glorious" rule, and only when he died and Logan took the throne was it finally swept away. One of the few truly positive things Logan had ever done with his rule...

"Look, I understand the crown has left a bad taste in your mouth over the years, and you have yet to tell me why, so I'll never fully understand until you do, but Page, seriously, she seems strong and driven, for what it's worth." Ben admitted, unconsciously drawing his rifle into his lap and disassembling it for a cleaning. "Isn't that what Albion needs right now?"

Page hummed disapprovingly; Sparrow let Albion run rampant during his rule, granted it grew faster than it ever had and the technological progress was unparalleled, but Logan had done the opposite; he had forced order, increased taxes, placed laws and sanctions that would get a man imprisoned for blowing his nose on a street corner. Albion needed order, absolutely, but not tyranny. It needed order, but not anarchy. It seemed that between Sparrow and Logan that was all there was, what would Talah be? Her eyes crossed the map in front of her. "She almost seems like she'd be worse than Logan. I've heard the stories about her. She's cold like her brother, and ruthless. Squeezing a drop of compassion out her seems to be a difficult task. From the outside, I would say that more than anything she wants to merely conquer Albion rather than build it up."

"She's a princess, Page. And a warrior, that much is clear. It's also clear that it tires her out." Ben pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and starting polishing the rifle. "She's been forced into a world of no true friends, uncountable enemies, betrayers and backstabbers at every turn. No family, no love... you would be a bit cold too, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed it's a lonely life to be sure, but is she a leader?" Page pressed, rubbing her left arm distractedly. "I don't want to have things go so that someone much worse than Logan is perched on the throne of Albion. We need someone who has the ability and fortitude to change the very way that Albion lives."

Ben shrugged in the torchlight of the sewers, he ran a hand through his sand coloured hair."Coming from a soldier; one who has been trained to recognize my leader, I would say that she is most definitely the one to lead Albion. She's accepting, but also motivated, she's energetic, but reserved, and she's proven she can be a leader as well as a friend. She has fear like any other person, but has proven to me that she can rise above her fear in order to rally others to courage. She might not outwardly show her compassion, but I can tell that it's there." He fell silent, continuing the cleaning of his weapon.

Page regarded him silently, considering everything he had just said; how can a man such as you be so accepting and collected about everything? You're a soldier, Ben Finn, and yet you speak with the wisdom of a sage.

"She'll need to prove it to me before I believe it." She reminded him.

"I know." Ben smiled, not looking up from his gun.

The fire burned in the sewers, and an undetectable wind stoked the flames of change.

The princess returned to the resistance headquarters a few days later, filthy from head to toe, a look of utmost exhaustion on her face. With a glance, one would not suppose this to be the aspiring Queen of Albion, but rather a filthy mercenary or brigand. There was nothing regal or postured about the creature that tumbled through the door, arms wrapped in makeshift dressings that were already soaked through with drying blood, and smelling of sweat and gunpowder.

"I'm done." She breathed, collapsing onto the ground, and covering her eyes with the palm of a slightly shaking hand. "I have single handedly removed Logan's military presence in Mourningwood and vindicated the soldiers loyal to the true crown."

"You know things are going to get a lot harder than this?" Sir Walter pointed out gently from his table by the fire pit, as Page pursed her lips and busied her hands with a book. "This was just... running errands. The things we're going to have to face up to are going to be much worse. You can't go and get all burnt out yet."

Talah groaned and flipped over onto her front to relieve her back from her sword "Before all of this, I spent my day in expensive dresses, drinking brandy and reading books. I am not a one man army, Walter. I am the next in line to the throne and as such, I must express that I think it is absolutely ludicrous that I must go about all of these tasks by myself. No guard of any sort, not even a single accomplice. Do you want me dead before I even have a shot at dearest Logan?"

That was it. That was the breaking point. Page slammed the thick leatherbound book down on the table and stood over the battered princess.

"No, we have a revolution to plan." She said, her lips pressed together in a firm line. "You've made it quite clear that you can help the people and persuade them to follow you, but as Walter said, now is not the time to be lying around. You are a hero. You came to us, we let you in, and now you must prove to us that you are not exactly what you just said you are; a bookish little girl who watches the world go by happily while the rest of it suffers under your brother." She crouched down next to the princess, who had removed her hand from her eyes and was studying her face with an un-nerving sort of intensity. "You will do this, and you will do it alone, or you will die trying. Your title means nothing down here, just as Walter's means nothing, just as anyone who joins us forsakes all such things. You are not the princess down here. Down here, you are The Owl, and you serve the greater good."

Talah studied her coolly, not saying anything. Page could feel the indignation coming off of the woman however, and extended her a hand to help her up. "Walter if you could find Doc. It looks like our owl has some wounds that need tending to."

Walter nodded and headed down the hallway, soon returning with the small framed, spectacled man who had been a doctor of great repute before Logan shut down his practice upon finding out that he treated prostitutes and beggars for free.

Returning to the map table, Page began to speak as Doc began tearing away at Talah's clothes, peeling stained fabric away from the wounds they had dried to.

"Reaver, the head of industry in Bowerstone is our next target." She announced. "We sent a group of men to his manor in Millfields, but they never came back. We have reason to believe he has not killed them, rather is keeping them prisoner for some surely sick reason. This man, as we all know is a monster, forcing children to work excruciatingly long hours for little to no pay: He doesn't care about the lives he affects. He cares only about his bottom line. Seeing as he works closely with Logan, he is an important figure to strike from the board. And we believe we have amassed enough internal strength that we can infiltrate his home in Millfields, free our men, and capture the devil in the white coat." Page paused for a moment when Talah moaned in pain; Doc had just unceremoniously removed a bullet from her arm and doused the open wound in alcohol.

"In what state are we to capture him?" A former noble named Samuel Greenly chimed in. He used to live in Millfields before one of Reaver's pet balvarerines had devoured his four year old daughter. Upon that unfortunate happenstance, he sold his home and belongings and he and his wife donated all of the gold to the resistance. Page knew that if the man had a chance, he would kill Reaver in a heartbeat.

"Preferably alive." She answered, "Though the entire goal is to remove his hands from the control of industry and the economy, if that must be done by smashing his skull in, you will not be reprimanded."

"Why?"Talah asked, through the handkerchief she had placed in her mouth to bite down on as the doctor fed a needle and thread through her broken skin. Page's eyes flashed to the filthy woman.

"Why not?" She asked dangerously. "Is there something about killing a murderer that doesn't sit well with you, Owl?"

Talah winced as Doc cut off the end of the thread and tied the stitches closed. "Wouldn't it be more practical to ensure we capture him alive and use him to our advantage? I hate to mention it again, but when I take the throne which is you know... mine, I would see that he came to justice for his crimes, numerous though they may be." Page glared at her silently; what was she playing at here? This was why she didn't trust the princess as far as she could throw her; there seemed to always be some plan, some notion, some idea she had that she refused to share until the time came for it to happen. What was the slippery princess planning this time?

"There isn't a prison in this world that could hold a man like Reaver." Walter said darkly. "He wouldn't do the same for any of us." He dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.

"If you take the throne and justice is not served to that vile creature, I will withdraw all of my support, both bodily, and financially." Greenly promised, stiffening in his battered evening jacket. Page understood the weight behind the threat; if Greenly withdrew all financial support and Talah took the throne, that would leave the resistance neck deep in debt. The gold had gone to purchase food, ammunition, explosives and friends. It was not money easily made back.

The princess yanked away from Doc, who was cleaning a deep cut on her arm."Well would someone care to enlighten me as to what the plan actually is, then? Because I fail to see how bursting through the man's front door with swords drawn and guns blazing is going to do anybody any good. Reaver is a smart man, and he anticipates treachery at every turn. He took the men knowing that we wouldn't dare to abandon them to their fate. He knows we're coming for them, we are plainly walking into a trap."

"Reaver hosts secret society parties every now and then," Page began. "They're secret for a reason, but we just happened to catch wind from a reliable source when the next one is... we also happen to know that he knows exactly who you are, and what you are doing, Owl."

"What? How?" Talah stammered nervously; if anything she was good at lying. Page had been informed the very next day of the unfamiliar man who had purchased the Bowerstone pub on the spot and followed the princess into a private room, later emerging completely alone. Page had eyes and ears everywhere, and although the knowledge that the pair had even conversed made her feel sick, she intended to use it to her advantage.

"The whys and the hows are not of consequence at this point. All that matters is that we get our men back, and what better way to do that than to double-bait?" Page was told they had spoken for a time. About what she didn't know, for all she knew, they even fucked. All of that aside, he knew who she was then and didn't deliver her to Logan, she was counting on the hope that he wouldn't do it this time either.

"Talah and I will go in disguises, infiltrate the party, find the men, incapacitate Reaver, and leave." She announced.

"Just you and I?" Talah demanded, clearly offended.

"More help than you've been given before, Owl." Page said softly. "I will meet you outside of the gates to the manor at nine sharp." She triumphed in the flicker of fear in the woman's eyes; yes, she was forcing her into a corner. She was altering the conversation so that Talah had no option but to tell the entire truth.

"Hmmm..." Talah trailed off again, as she so often did, her eyes wandering to the corner of the ceiling. "It so happens that I have already arranged an opportunity to infiltrate the manor alone on the very same night. The time line of my arrival and yours differs however; I am expected to be there at six. I would be more than happy to meet you inside at nine." She winced as she finished the sentence and the room erupted.

"See Ben? This is exactly what I was talking about-"

"Talah what in blazes does that mean?—"

"You had a cozy little sit down with the cruel berk then, hey?"

"I told you we can't trust her! She's obviously been conspiring with Reaver!" Page snarled. Why have her over three hours early? To what end did the industrialist hope to gain by this? Better yet, to what end was Talah travelling with this farce? She had just admitted in front of an entire room full of people that she had communicated with Reaver; it was not a simple thing to overlook now that it was confirmed.

Talah held her hands up, clearly not wanting this already uncomfortable situation to escalate any further. "It was completely by chance that this happened." She lied, "But Page, that leaves more time for me to locate your missing men, and gauge the situation before you even arrive. I may even be able to incapacitate him before you even arrive."

"What are you doing there anyways?" Page hissed, "Spending your off-time as a concubine, now?"

"Oh honestly, is this really necessary?" Talah sighed, wiping her hand across her face. "I understand you're suspicious of me, but honestly, who else can you trust right now? I'm not one for plotting and sneaking and trickery, well I am. But all I want out of this is to get my bloody useless brother off of the throne." Her eyes didn't leave Page's, "I'm doing this because I see so much beauty in the world, and I would hate to see Logan burn it all down to the ground. So you may choose to trust me or not, regardless, I will be at Reaver's mansion tomorrow evening at six. I have been forced to do everything alone up until this point, and I will continue to do so if I must. I will be at the gates at nine, and if we meet, great, if we don't... also great."

Page's hand left her thoughtful chin and from behind her back she handed Talah a package.

"If you betray us, Owl, or give us reason to believe you mean to, I will kill you myself." She said stoically.


	6. The Owl

She pushed her owl mask up on her nose, as she clicked her way up the cobbled path to Reaver's mansion. Even if she hadn't been here before, she would have known which of the exquisite stone mansions that surrounded the lake belonged to her target; it had a gleaming, white ten foot tall marble statue of its owner in the front gardens. Talah steeled herself for the night to come; part of being a decent and effective ruler was diplomacy. So far she had scraped by on entirely steel and gunpowder; she knew that was not going to be a successful way of going about things at this point. You are a queen, she reminded herself as she lifted the elegant brass door knocker shaped like a balverine head and knocked. You are a queen and Reaver may be an intimidating adversary who is dangerously close to Logan, but he is one of your future subjects. You have control of this situation, despite what he may want you to think... you are a queen: Compose yourself as such. If that falls through... well, you're a warrior.

She hitched her lute a bit higher up on her shoulder and the door swung open to a deeply bowing maid whose breasts were practically falling out of the frilly corset she wore.

"Master Reaver said to expect you." She said, straightening and tucking her breasts back into place and giving them a shuffle just for good measure. "Please come inside."

Relieved that the maid didn't address her by name, or ask for one, Talah crossed the threshold, lifting her bouffant skirts as she did so; she didn't anticipate this particular outfit lasting long. Page had given it to her along with the owl mask. A tawny, copper and gold number, it consisted of voluminous petticoats and far too much lace for Talah's liking. After living for five months in well worn leather and cotton, she felt like she was walking into a trap with a barrel strapped around her. She had long ago decided to have dinner with Reaver and change before the party. She supposed as a queen, certain appearances must be kept, and if she was meant to talk over dinner with the slimy industrialist, she may as well look the part.

"Master Reaver is still getting ready, so if you'd like I can take all of your belongings and store them for you in the mean time." She stepped aside, allowing Talah to get a good view of the opulent home. Her jaw tempted to hang open as her eyes wandered around the room, taking in the utterly eccentric splendour of the mansion. Rich reds adorned the walls and glimmering light from the larger than life crystal chandeliers made the gold accenting around the cavernous entrance way gleam in an other-worldly way. No one man should be allowed to own so many plush pieces of furniture she decided, stepping across the black and white chessboard floor; she couldn't help but wonder what sort of game would be played on it. It surprised her very little to discover upon closer inspection that every painting that was displayed in the room was of Reaver.

She handed the maid her lute and her sword, opting to keep her gun attached to her thigh under many, many layers of fabric where it would likely do her no good even if she needed it. The maid curtsied politely, and Talah made herself comfortable in a plush red velvet arm chair that practically swallowed her when she sat in it.

"My lady, Master Reaver has instructed that you are to be served with anything and anything that the mansion has at it's disposal." The maid informed her.

"A bottle of wine, if you please. Red." Talah said absently, untying her mask and sliding it off her face; this maid wouldn't recognize her, and if she did, she wouldn't dare to disobey her master.

"Most certainly, my lady. Is there anything else you require at this time?"

"That will be all." Talah said, adjusting herself within the chair, wondering if the throne would be so engulfing.

"Very well. The master should be with you soon." The maid began, cut off by a shrill giggle echoing from the upstairs. "He is otherwise indisposed at the moment."

Talah chuckled when the maid turned bright red. "To each their own I suppose." She smiled, leaning back into her chair. "I've got all the time in the world, Master Reaver needn't hurry himself." She winked at the maid who went off to fetch her wine. I wonder how many times he's had her, simply for the fact that she's under his employ?

She sighed into the echoing cavern of a front room, wondering how anyone could bring themselves to live utterly alone in such absurd decadence. Perhaps as a reminder for other short comings she supposed. Wishing she had brought along a book or something else to occupy herself she glanced around the room, taking in each detail as she saw it. The staircase was just as grand as the rest of the building, and the windows were draped with expensive looking red velvet. Not a speck of dust lingered in the house despite the various assortment of expensive looking knick-knacks that sat on drawers and tables.

The maid returned with Talah's wine and poured her a glass without spilling a drop.

"Could I trouble you for a copy of the day's paper?" Talah asked, accepting the cup of wine and tasting it as she had been taught how. "yes, this is very good, thank you." The maid filled the glass the rest of the way and hurried away to fetch a newspaper.

Reaver. The future queen of Albion is sitting in your front room. How do you feel about this? She wondered. Are you apathetic to the fact that soon your life will be in my hands, or do you even know? Do you feel frightened of my strength? Do you understand exactly how far I will go in order to put myself on that magnificently gilded chair in Bowerstone Castle? If you don't...

Samuel Greenly and his dear wife ran through her mind when the maid handed her the newspaper and she unfolded it. How could they not? Their photographs were plastered on the front page around an even bigger photograph of herself. Walter, Page, Ben and Major Swift were pictured too. All under a bold black headline in all capital letters that read "TRAITORS AMONG US?" She couldn't fathom the tragedy of losing a child let alone losing one in such a horrible way. It was no wonder the husband and wife gave up everything with the hopes of exacting change.

"A balverine..." She whispered, her eyes scanning over the articles. A white one? She wondered. With a shredded black top hat, mayhaps? It all unnerved her greatly to think about so instead she busied herself with the sporting section and poured herself another glass of wine, the scents of soot, spice, sex and expensive cologne lulling her to easy distraction.

He appeared roughly half an hour later at the top of the over the top stairs, fussing with his cravat like a frustrated teenage boy. "So glad you came." He said as he jammed the end of his belt into its buckle and straightened the cuff of his sleeves, running a hand experimentally through his for-the-time hatless hair. He leaned against the balcony and scanned the sitting room, unable to see anybody else apart from herself. She looked up and smiled at him in greeting, the same cool smile she had shown him before. She finished scribbling something down on a small piece of parchment and stuffed it down the front of her elaborate gown before standing to greet her host in the appropriate fashion.

Had the dandy been expecting a curtsy and a kiss to each perfumed cheek, he certainly didn't get it as Talah drew herself up to her full height and held out her right hand. "Mister Reaver," She said, "My sincere gratitude for having me." Perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed in what may have been confusion and annoyance, but he did not decline her handshake. She may have been a woman, which counted for next to nothing in the world, but she was a hero, and she was the heir to the throne. Talah smiled inwardly; you have control of this situation.

"I say, with all of this royal heir pedantic, you're getting to be awfully boring nowadays." Reaver said once the formalities were through. "Not a single grass stain on you, my goodness."

"I was always under the impression that my untamed ways were a thing that many saw as negative." She said, a small smile lifting the corner of her lips.

"Negative." Reaver repeated, picking up the bottle of wine the maid had brought out for her and studying the label. "That may very well be, but where's the fun in being a tediously boring people pleaser?"

Talah started to reply, but once the question actually sunk in, she found she didn't have a good answer. Logan stuck to all of the conventional ways and nearly the entire kingdom hated him anyway. For all of the pomp and ceremony that went into being the king, he was still a horrid person.

"In that case, hand me back my bottle of wine." She said, testing the waters.

"I'll have to have Nelly flayed. She gave you the best vintage I own." Reaver said, as he placed the uncorked bottle in Talah's waiting hand. She held his gaze boldly.

"May be that she knows who I am, and dares not to serve me anything other than the best."

"If you say so, my dear." Reaver said, turning away from her, wafting a heady cloud of spicy cologne in her direction as he did so; it made her eyes and her mind swim. "If you would care to join me in the salon, we can enjoy a glass of brandy before dinner is served."

She followed wordlessly, taking a moment to itch at the irritating seam of the corset that was scratching her lower back. Reaver was a graceful man. More of a dandy than a fop, more of a lion than a peacock, despite the arrogant splendour he surrounded himself with. Going hand in hand with the word "untamed" there was something incredibly lithe and primal about him as he walked in front of her, reminding her of nothing so much of some proud jungle cat in the way that he walked; smoothly, every limb coming to a full and intentional extension. There was nothing heavy or cumbersome about him. She found herself thinking of the way he smelled again, as she trailed along in the cloud of expensive fragrance he left behind him; even the scent of him was sleek and erotic. It was no wonder this man could have any woman or man he wanted. One could be completely blind when he walked into a room and still want to be seduced purely based on what other senses had to tell.

You're not here for that. She reminded herself. Charming though he may be, unless you intend to marry him and bear him heirs and make him a king, it would be best to avoid any physical... urges. Best just find a random and not entirely ugly party guest to fuck later.

"Have a chair, mon petite lapin." He said smoothly, pouring amber coloured liqueur into rounded glasses.

"Where on this great earth did you find such a hideous thing?" She asked, trying not to think about the rabbit comment. Didn't wolves- balverines in particular, eat rabbits? "It's ghastly." She said, staring at the ancient looking metal statue in the centre of the room. It stood roughly eight feet high and had a long, pointed beak for a face. The hollow eye sockets disturbed her the most; it was like a suit of armour, but no human she had ever seen would be able to contort themselves into the shell of this monstrosity. Its thick metal arms with an anatomy consisting of gears and springs ended in bronze, knife like claws. It was a clockwork abomination.

"A souvenir I picked up along my many travels." He dismissed, closing the distance between himself and Talah, pushing the brandy into her hand and gently running his thumb down her wrist as he did. "I have no fondness for dogs, so I placed it there in the hope that it'd frighten burglars away." He chuckled to himself. "Now if I could only get it to work I would never have to worry about security again."

Talah forced a smile. The idea of Reaver owning and controlling a giant metal monster that would do his bidding was extremely disturbing at best, and potentially catastrophic at worst.

"Come, come now. Enough about my various material treasures, numerous though they may be, sit and we'll talk." He placed a hand on the small of her back and lead her to an armchair identical to the last one she sat in, except this one was brown leather.

A fire crackled merrily in the grate beside them, and Talah couldn't help but be aware of his eyes watching her unblinkingly as she arranged her skirts to cover her ankles.

"Now before we get into all the messy business of negotiations and the like, I feel that it is most important that we be completely honest with each other, which we haven't been, have we you naughty minx?" He winked at Talah over his glass of brandy.

"I don't understand." She said, remaining stoic.

"No need to play coy, my dear. You can tell Reaver the truth." He swirled the brandy in the glass he held with long, elegant fingers. "You're a hero, aren't you? Not just in the metaphysical sense of the word being that you fight for truth and justice and the upright order of the world. No, no. Correct me if I am wrong, but you are that which is immensely gifted with the ability to kill things and people?"

"I thought we had already confirmed this when you told me you wanted a hero on the throne." Talah said coolly, drinking from her own glass.

"To act as a hero is one thing. I had been thinking that perhaps you had merely gotten your silly father's sad inclination to do good in the world. Logan obviously didn't get the desirable aspects of a true hero's blood, why should you? Only you know for certain, mon petite lapin, so do tell us."

Talah was smarter than to play the game like this. If she played it by his rules, she would be giving him all the control in one go. So instead she said, "Why don't you tell me what you think?"

Reaver sighed. "If you insist, dahling. Here's what Reaver has seen and heard about your talents: An associate of mine returned from Mistpeak to inform me that you had taken out a wild boar at over two hundred yards with a single shot from a rifle. At the time it was also snowing heavily and the surrounding area was entirely wooded. My eyes and ears in Mourningwood tell tales of how you slept in the swamp and woke up surrounded by hollowmen, your only bewildered option being at the time to dispatch every single undead with nothing but a hunting knife. The wounds that you took during the scuffle obviously didn't kill you." He drummed the fingers of his other hand against the arm of the leather chair. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter... "Not to mention the little game you played in the pub with a man twice your weight, yet somehow you came out on top. All of the nonsense about you being a woman and the weaker sex aside, I think that I am very safe in my assumption that I share the room with one of only two remaining heroes in Albion."

"Two?" Talah repeated, trying to keep the surprise from her voice and face.

"Indeed. You happen to be sharing the room with the only other hero in Albion besides yourself."

"You?" Talah said, incredulous. "I know my father knew you, and had dealings with you in the past, but you must forgive me, there is absolutely nothing heroic about you."

"Hero is not a title, dear girl. It is a genetic abnormality that makes people like us different from the rest. The term "hero" itself is terribly flawed, I find, particularly when people try to apply it to people like us."

Genetics? Where could he be going with this? She suddenly felt quite uncomfortable, as suspicions began to materialize in her mind.

"Prove it." She said at last. "Cast a spell then."

Reaver laughed, he laughed loudly, and genuinely. A foppish sort of titter.

"Oh... oh my." He said, composing himself. "Silly girl do I look like a conjuror? Do I strike you as someone who wanders around openly with the ability to harness elemental energy and use it at will? Goodness no. I never had the patience to learn such nonsense." He stood from his chair smoothly and offered a hand to her. "Come and we shall see just how well the pair of us match up as heroes." She accepted the hand up; his hands, although beautiful and swan-like to look at, were strikingly cold. She was honestly glad when he linked her arm with his as was proper for a man hosting a lady; at least he wasn't holding her hand anymore.

He lead her to the back gardens; a wooded meadow with a sign promising death to anyone who dared to trespass. Reaver had actually bothered to build a fully functional shooting range on the west side of the garden: A handsome wooden shelter, expertly crafted with no expense spared. Targets consisted of wine bottles (there seemed to be no lack of those,) fine china Reaver had obviously tired of, and an assortment of straw dummies that all looked somehow familiar to Talah with their red hoods covering their faces and makeshift bangles and jewlery.

"This is actually quite impressive." Talah said as they drew closer to the structure.

"Isn't it, though?" Reaver said unflinchingly, pulling a set of brass keys from his pocket and unlocking not just one, but three locks that held shut a small shed that was concealed behind the shade of the house.

"A bit archaic, frankly, but one must start somewhere, no?"

She couldn't help but feel like he was simply bored and looking for a good jape at this point as she snatched the longbow from his hand, along with the arrows. She staked them in the ground and positioned herself about a hundred yards away from the targets.

"If we're going to play the shooting things for fun game, can we at least play the hitting things with metal sticks game next time?" She asked, looking over her shoulder.

Reaver just shrugged and poured more brandy from the bar he had installed in the small shed.

Talah sighed and nocked an arrow; she'd never loosed a bow in her entire life. Bows had become obsolete even before her father. Taking a deep breath, she chose to aim for the dummy that was one row behind the closest wine bottle. The bowstring thrummed as she loosed the arrow and there was a rustle as the arrow struck its target. She shielded her eyes from the setting sun and squinted. "Got it in the liver." She announced, flexing her left hand behind her back; the recoil from the bow made her hand numb from the wrist to the fingertips. The bowstring itself had struck her wrist as she released it, leaving a raw red streak she knew was going to be a bruise in a few hours. It was no surprise that with the dawn of gunpowder and steel such things as bows quickly became obsolete.

"A fair shot, to be sure." Reaver admitted from the sunny porch behind the range. "I would say it's a good thing you were born in this time period and not in one where you had to be able to actually use one of those properly to stay alive."

He's trying to irritate me now, Talah convinced herself. He's simply looking to satisfy his own ego. Don't be flippant without good cause. Shit that! This is a good cause!

"Fine." She said coolly, holding out the bow. "Impress me then, so far you've done nothing to do so. Just a lot of talk."

"I do love to shoot things." He purred, strolling across the perfectly manicured lawn and seizing the bow from her hand. He yanked the two remaining arrows out of the lawn and with a haughty look walked about another twenty paces further away from the range.

Bloody erotic hip-swaggering dandy... no man's trousers should fit that well.

He didn't even tell her to clear away lest the wind blow him off course. He planted one arrow, nocked the other, stood sideways so he was parallel to the mansion and loosed the arrow as if it was as simple as flicking away a speck of lint. Despite the slight crosswind it flew straight and true over a hundred and fifty yards, and buried itself with a "thunk" into the straw dummy's forehead. Without pause he yanked loose the other arrow and shot it without a moment's pause. A slight crack came from the shelter, and Talah saw that the arrow had neatly split the other one in two.

"Wonderful parlour trick, sir." She said. "But if you're looking to impress me with such childish nonsense..." She said, wondering why else he would do such things.

"Impress?" He repeated, crossing the lawn back to the shed, his eyes rather cold. "I do nothing to impress anybody. I do the things that I do so that the world knows what I am capable of." And just like that, his amiable air returned. "Let's play with something more fun, shall we?" He opened the shed doors again and this time pushed a rifle into Talah's hands. "As I told you, I hear that you are quite gifted with one of these. Don't let me down!" He waved his finger at her. "Since you managed to kill a moving boar at two hundred yards, I wager you should try from two hundred and fifty." He drawled, looking at his fingernails.

Actually beginning to see the challenge and competition in this game, Talah silently started walking. If my father could see me now. She thought as she counted. Wearing a masquerade costume, standing in the yard of Reaver and shooting at straw dummies that bore a suspicious resemblance to Theresa... it was all she could do to keep a laugh from escaping. She doubted herself much less this time as she reached her mark and planted her feet in a wide stance, bracing her upper body as she lifted the sight to her eye. Rifles were familiar territory for her; Logan taught her how to shoot when she was still quite young. She remembered with ease the very first time she squeezed the trigger and was immediately thrown onto her backside; how did Logan and the rest of the men make it look so effortless?

"Upper left wine bottle." She stated before pulling the trigger. The bottle shattered in a shower of green glass and Talah lowered the rifle, waving away the smoke with her hand. "I'm not completely useless." She said.

"But I'm still better."

No one is disputing that fact, nor will they ever. She thought with annoyance. Why must you keep parading it around me?

He didn't even say anything this time, he just sauntered over and pulled the rifle out of her hands, once again elongating the distance even further.

"Glass monocle." He said.

"Monocle? There's a monocle-?" She was interrupted by the crack of gunfire and as the smoke cleared, she made her way to the range, leaning over the railing. Sure enough, at the very back of the rows, perched about three feet up was small, bent brass ring, the glass it once held was no more than small splinters and traces of fine dust.

"I relent." She said, retrieving her brandy from the fine patio table. "Indeed you are a hero. No other man alive could make such shots."

Reaver placed the rifle back into the shed with a gentleness she had not yet seen from him. So he loved himself, and his gun collection, she decided. "No other man." He confirmed. "But there is one more part to this game that we have yet to play, and the sun is leaving us quickly. It wouldn't bother me much, but I'm sure you would hate to lose the light. If the lady doesn't mind, I shall go first this time."

Talah nodded and the industrialist grinned; he truly was fond of shooting things. He could probably do it all day and night if he wanted to. And didn't require sex and alcohol.

She barely had time to look up to see him fire off multiple rounds in rapid succession from the pistol she had never seen him without; a thing equally as over the top as he was. Gilded and engraved and polished all over. He had just shot every single dummy through the heart, and most fascinating of all was that he hadn't taken his eyes off of her the entire time.

Hero indeed. She thought to herself. He may be nearly useless at everything else combat-wise, but the amount of skill he possesses is unbelievable.

"I'm ashamed to admit it, Mister Reaver, but I'll never be able to surpass that display." She said. Is that what you wanted to hear?

"Oh I don't doubt that statement for a second, dahling." He smirked at her, the corners of his kohl lined eyes crinkling "But for the sake of balance in the universe, you go right ahead and try anyway."

"Can I use your gun?" She asked plainly, guessing the answer.

"Heavens no."

"Then I'm afraid I won't be able to do it."

"Now, now." He said, coming near and filling her brandy glass again before setting the bottle aside. "I already told you; you can be honest with Reaver." He pulled her to the grass. "Let's sit. You like grass, right? Good."

Talah's eyes wandered over his face, seeking out a hint of what was going on. She knew she was caught. He knew she had her pistol. Who was in control, again? Her question was answered when his hand slid under the heavy layers of satin and silk, slowly ascending up her black stockings, fingers dancing over her garter...

"Excuse me!" She said in what she hoped were properly scandalized tones, batting away at his hand which was ironically shielded from her offences by the absurd amount of fabric between them.

"Ah!" He said in mock surprise, yanking his hand away as quickly as he had put it there. "There it is!"

He tossed the pistol in the air and caught it by the barrel, holding out the handle to Talah, who knew she had turned a furious red; it wasn't that she didn't enjoy the feeling of a man running his hand or other things up the inside of her thigh, it was the fact that she most certainly didn't ask for it in this instance.

"I- I... I will be, am... I am going to be your queen!" She blustered uselessly. "You will not touch me in such ways!"

"You're the one who claimed to have surrendered all of your weapons at the door, Your Majesty." Reaver said calmly, although she could see the smile struggling to break through. "Or shall it be Your Grace? Your Highness? Her Royalness? Grand Empress of Albion? What is the point of it all if you don't have a king?"

Talah couldn't keep the incredulous smirk from her face; there it was. All of her suspicions from the beginning of the night confirmed. "A marriage, then?" She said. "A marriage that would solidify my rule, single handedly make you king consort, and theoretically continue the heroic bloodline?" All very well and good to the ears, but what consequences would be wrought, taking Reaver for a husband? Faithfulness was out of the question; how many bastards would he whelp? How would the people take to it? She could already see Page's face turning a deep shade of beetroot at the news. For that matter, who was to say that she wanted a husband to begin with? The suitors had been pouring in for years now, and she had turned them all down with ease, even the handsome foreign men with dark skin and golden swords, promises of strong, hardy sons and rapturous nights as a bride... she was not easily bought in matters of love and power.

She felt slightly at a loss. What would Sparrow do? What would her father decide? He had been raised a gypsy, and the gypsy philosophy in regards to love and marriage was a simple one: "If you cannot steal her purse of coins yourself, then you do not deserve to steal her heart." But then there was the bloodline to consider. If she and Reaver were the only ones of heroic blood left, wouldn't it make sense to double the chances of continuing it by procreating? But would it really be so bad to see heroes fade into myth? So many questions, so many possibilities. Marrying for love would never be an option for her when she became queen, she realized with sadness. Any marriage would be political, or financial. Her own mother was in fact a noblewoman who her father had wed simply because she was charming to the people, and had a great deal of money in her coffers.

How incredibly lonely he must have been.

Her mother had died birthing Talah, and so she had never known her, or seen her father with her, but Logan spoke of the great love that they bore each other, despite being nearly complete strangers at the time of their marriage.

"I am afraid I will need to think about it." She admitted, plucking out a few blades of grass distractedly. "It is a lot to commit to, and I don't even sit the throne yet."

"Imagine if you would, how I feel, petite lapin, marriage is a brave new world which I never thought I might explore." He adjusted his shirt sleeves and stood, offering her his icy hand once again. "However, the name of the game is self preservation and you need not worry that I am offering my hand to you in 'love.'"

Talah didn't know if that was a good or bad thing.

**A/N: Fun fact: My real life human being inspiration for our darling industrialist is Mr. Brian Viglione, former drummer for the Dresden Dolls. Looks, mannerisms, and exceptionally unhinged drumming style all contribute to my literal interpretation of Reaver. For he is a wild man at heart.**


End file.
